


Little Boy

by whatthefrickfrackpaddywack



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Feels, Dubious Consent, Happy Birthday Sammy, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Kissing, Sam thinks of Dean as mary, Sick Sam, Weecest, Weechesters, Wincest - Freeform, as in sick in the head, because dean is angst, what is even going on anymore, what the fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 17:58:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7902295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefrickfrackpaddywack/pseuds/whatthefrickfrackpaddywack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is baby chub disappearing before his eyes, knobby knees pressing into his under the table, hand a little too close to home for comfort or brotherly affection. He's book smarts and spaghetti o's, and pimpled shoulders from puberty hitting too quick. He's Dean's little boy. He's the roughest thirteen.</p><p>He's scaring Dean to death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homo_pink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink/gifts).



> Dear Homo_Pink,  
> I gift this work to you because you give me life.  
> Plus I know you won't run for the hills.  
> Please continue the amazing writing.  
> (Everybody go check out their work because godDAMN)

Dean had Mary's eyes.

He wore faded leather and bruised up cheekbones, cocky smirks and cowboy boots. He listened to Pink Floyd on tape, shoved his shoes up on the dashboard of his fuck-me car and took a bullet better than a flue shot. He exemplifies their father in every action, every command, every _yes sir_ and ask questions later. He was dirty denim and band tees. He was broad shoulders and muscle.

But Sam has seen the pictures. And he's seen Mary's eyes.

Dean has her blonde hair, fading with age but nonetheless bright and yellow and sweet as corn. He has her mouth, pouty pink lips that crack his face when he smiles, cracked Sam's heart when he cried. Dean was Mary's softness, wrapped up in cock rock and whiskey, freckles dancing on his nose the same patter as her's. Dean was warmth, and snark, and sausage fingers gentle when he stroked Sammy's hair. He's sugar and spice and the sweetest seventeen. He's the only home they'd ever known and the only mom Sam wanted. And he looks like Mary.

 Sam is the one who took after John. Brown hair and puppy dog eyes and hot headed fury. Sam is John's stubbornness and eyelashes, his eyebrows and his nose. He's got the quick fingers and the sharp wit that John hides under alcohol and gun powder, the one track mind and the thin lipped grimace. Sam is daddy's dimples, grass stained knees knobby and growing into his height every day. Sam is wild and uncontrollable. Sam is spoiled rotten by his brother. 

He's got his nose shoved into an peeling paint book from the school library, walkman clouding his ears with "Stairway to Heaven," Dean's tape, lent last week and yet to get back. His brother is waiting out front, parked illegally across two spaces. ( _Can't risk some snot nosed brat scratching up my baby.)_ He's all High School bravado, winking at the soccer moms and grinning at Sam like they're sharing some secret joke that nobody else could possibly understand. Like Sam is the only one out of the hundreds of eighth graders spilling out of the school doors that mattered.

"Dude, why can't you just read comic books like a normal teenager?" Sam tries, (and fails,) to duck away from the headlock that traps him under bear hugged arms covered in red flannel, cigarette burns wafting away the smell of cologne clinging to Dean's skin. His brother ruffles his hair and kisses his forehead.

"C'mon, man!" Sam is whining because he's supposed to. Because the other kids at school,  _(the normal ones,)_ don't crave calloused hands and bubble gum lips on their skin. Don't crave warm palms or cracked in half smiles. "Knock it off!" He shoves Dean back and hops into the passenger side with his book in his lap.

Dean's smile is wavering at the edges, something small that nobody but Sam would've noticed. "What, you're too cool for me now?" He jokes. Sam's door slams shut in his face and he flinches. Sam hides his wince, guilt turning his face red.

 The radio is still on when Dean sits down, careful distance between them that wasn't there last year. Distance that Dean still isn't used to. Distance that Sam wants to tear away. "Hey, Dad left this afternoon. Ghoul in Montana. He's gonna call tonight to check in, but he'll probably be south for about a week." Sweet Child o'Mine is blaring through the abused speakers on the mix-tape Sammy made him for his fourteenth birthday.

Guess it's one of those days.

He chases the song over and over again with his heartbeat, memorizing, remembering:  _kiss me goodnight, kiss me hello, kiss me goodbye. Kiss me. Love me. Kiss me. Hold me. Kiss me. Hold me. Love me. Hold me. Kiss me_. _DeanDeanDean,_  a record scratched beyond repair.  
  
_We're too old for that now._

_Can't kiss you no more, Sammy._

"Can we order pizza?" Sam see's Dean's fingers twitching on the wheel. He knows the texture of those hands against the back of his neck. Knows Dean's itching to squeeze Sam's thigh, wrap his arm around him over the seat and let his brother curl up in his side. Like they used to.

"Sure can, little boy. I'm getting kinda sick of spaghetti o's. Why couldn't you be a mac'n'cheese kid?" Dean's grin is back and his head is bobbing to the guitars.

Sam let's the endearment slide.

Lets it sink to the pit of his stomach and reminds himself that he's sick.

"This is coming from the guy who puts bananas and mayonnaise on his sandwiches."

"Hey! Don't insult the sandwich. It's fucking delicious, Sammy, and you're crazy for not liking 'em."

_(“It’s not fair,” Sam’s crying into his ear, pressing him into the bed, “not fair how you look, how you act, what you do to me. That I can’t have you.”)_

The windows are down, fall breeze whipping Sam's hair around while Dean drives too fast. Mary's eyes are glued to the road. Mary's hands are tapping the steering wheel.

"Hey, I forgot to give this back to you." Sam stretches out his lanky torso and twists around in his seat to reach his battered book bag. Candy apple green flicks over, settles on golden skin. Dean clears his throat and turns back to the road.

Sam's too busy fishing out the Walkman to notice.

He pulls the Zeppelin tape free with a grin, bangs flapping into his face, and Dean is staring. “I’ve been listening to “The Battle of Evermore” all day.”

There’s a couple flecks of golden brown dotting Dean's irises, doing nothing to diminish the twinkles of green when he laughs. “You bitch! I’ve been looking for that thing since Tuesday!”

Sam can count the eyelashes fluttering on his brother’s wind pinked cheeks. He swallows thickly and settles back down.

“Hey, why don’t you pop it in? I could use some Slash right about now.” His leather jacket is in the backseat, cushioning the battered backpack that Sam's had for the last three years. It's easy. Talking to Dean has always been easy, even when his words got jumbled up. Even if his words didn’t make sense. Dean was Sammy's personal translator, his connection to the world. Co-dependent to the third degree.

The track slips in smooth, Sammy’s mix-tape coming out rewound and shiny new, pristine condition compared to the tearing tape and cracked corners of the lot in the box under the seat. Robert Plant’s baritone is grinding against the roar of the Impalas engine.

“We need to wash the sheets before the laundromat closes. Think you could bring your homework with you? I’ll help you with history.”

“Your version of helping with history involves ranting about Mary Antoinette's tits."

“Hey, you’ve seen the paintings. She was a class act babe, Sam."

"She was a spoiled monarch from the eighteen hundreds who let her people starve."

"Everybody makes mistakes."

Sam is five different kinds of fucked up. He's green with envy and battery acid.

"Is that really all it takes?"

Dean has that little  _wat u say_ look on his face, creased between the eyebrows and pursed between the lips. "All it takes to what, little boy?"

"Get you all hard-up."

He could swear he hears a crack when Dean's neck whips around to stare.

"...what the fuck, Sam."

"Tits. One mention of the damn things and you're practically drooling."

Dean's eyes drift back to the road. He forces out a chuckle. "Hey, I ain't picky. They're like squishy water balloon's, man. You'll get it when you're older."

"Have you ever even  _touched_ a water balloon? They feel nothing like boobs!"

"Have you ever touched a boob, kiddo?"

Sam's knees are pressed up to his chest, T-shirt scratching on denim.

"I'd probably be growing them right about now."

"...what the _fuck,_ Sam."

This conversation is edging into  _shut the fuck up_ territory, a continuation of the hundreds of aborted ones they've had since Sam hit puberty. "If I was a girl. I'd probably be growing tits right now."

His brother's voice sounds small. Soft. "You ain't no girl, Sammy."

"They'd be so tiny, barely a handful. You'd probably he able to fit one in your hand." Sam's chest feels hollow _,_ jack hammer chipping away at his rib cage. "They'd be tight. Tighten up even further if you touched 'em."

"Stop it."

_(Dean feels Sam’s hands in places they shouldn’t be. “Not stopping, not going to deal with this anymore. I’m sick, I’m so sick, Dean.”)_

Sam's back is pressing hard into baby's leather seats, muddy sneakers pushing into the floor boards with the unasked  _please._ "My nipples would be all hard and achey. I read in a book somewhere that they don't usually lactate unless you're pregnant. You could suck on me for hours, but nothing would come out."

Dean has perfected the poker face over the years, drilled it into his brain after years of CPS interrogations and strip club poker games. His eyes are glued to the road. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

"You could just rub 'em with your hands if you wanted to. I'd let you."

Dean's nostrils flair.

"I'd let you touch 'em right now. Pinch 'em. Kiss 'em." Next week is Sammy's birthday. The big fourteen, worth less than a dime store novel. Nothing special happens at fourteen, but Dean promised to take him out. He won't tell him where they're going. All Sam knows is that Dean's desperate, silently begging for things to go back to the way they were before the magic thirteen stole his baby away and left some sick fuck behind.

“I'm fucking serious-” His eyes are open and his mouth is trembling and Sam's hand is dragging his wrist away from the wheel and pressing his palm into Sam's thigh.

His hand is warm. Fingers dig in deep and cling desperately to the denim covering knobby knees. 

"You'd let me put my nipple in your mouth. Wouldn't you."

The car grinds to a halt on gravel, rented duplex battered and on the wrong side of the tracks before them. Sam's honestly surprised they got here so quick.

"You got five minutes to grab our shit and get back out here."

Dean has Mary's eyes. Blonde hair and pink lips and freckles dancing across his nose.

Sam has John's eyes. Brown hair and thin lips and moles dotting his face and forehead.

"Are the sheets already in the basket?"

"Nope. That's your job, little boy."

And Sam is bitter.

Because how the hell was he  _not_ supposed to fall in love with him?

 

\-----------------------------------

 

Sam is long arms and bony legs, sharp skinny elbows and soft thighs covered in peach fuzz. He's Ladder-rung ribs that Dean likes to walk his fingers up, wants to lick his tongue across. He's thrashing, restless cold toes in the middle of the night and warm, damp, good morning kisses, even though Dad says they're getting too old. Dean is wrapped around Sam's pinky finger as tightly as Sam is wrapped around his heart.

Sam is baby chub disappearing before his eyes, knobby knees pressing into his under the table, hand a little too close to home for comfort or brotherly affection. He's book smarts and spaghetti o's, and pimpled shoulders from puberty hitting too quick. He's Dean's little boy. He's slime and snails and the roughest thirteen.

He's scaring Dean to death.

Sammy's hungry when they get home, and the pizza's gonna take another twenty minutes till it get's here. There's not much in the house. Cereal and bread, some jam in the cabinet that is slowly crystallizing. But Dean remembers Sam telling him last week, baby boy heels bouncing up and down after a field trip to a farm, that preservatives never go sour. He makes Sam some toast to tide over till dinner, douses it with jam, then sits on the counter to watch his brother eat it.  
  
"Are you trying to fatten me up?" Sam says, crunching through one piece in three big bites.  
  
"You're doing that all on your own, kid," Dean answers, fixated on the pulse point on his little boy's wrist. Sam licks away a crumb right then, pink tongue dodging out to catch it, and Dean looks away.  
  
"You're like the witch in _Hansel and Gretel,_ "

"Do I look like I live in a freaking ginger bread house?"

"You know, the original lore states that the house is actually made of-" Sam starts. He launches into an explanation of narrative structure in fairy tales, something about the hero's journey. Little geek boy.  
  
Dean can't follow the thread of it. _I'll eat you up, I'll eat you up_. It's a looping litany in his head until eventually, inevitably, the preposition changes. _I'll eat you out._  
  
"Anyway," Sam's saying, "do you think that they were fucking?"

 _(Sam’s pulling on his clothes. His breath is stormy and Dean is crying, can't be the big brother when his baby has a hand on his fucking dick. “Why can’t I do it. Why can’t I get over you. It’s you, it’s you. Fuck, Dean, I_ hate _you.”)_  
  
Dean's fingers dig into the wooden counter top. He shuts his eyes and breathes through his nose. "Sam."  
  
"The Brothers Grimm. You know, the ones that wrote all those stories." Sam's mouth is shiny with red jam, crumbs clinging to the corners. "I think they were totally fucking."

" _The Brothers Grimm._ " Dean says each word clearly, ignoring the tattle tail goosebumps on his flanneled arms. "As in, they were brothers. Brothers don't fuck each other."

"Why not?"

Dean has to exert every inch of will power not to throw his brother against the wall and show him  _why not._ "Because it's illegal, you idiot."

"We do a shit ton of illegal stuff. Why's this any different?" Sammy's puppy dog eyes fix on candy green, sidling up between bowed legs while Dean's jaw clenches. "And why's it illegal, anyway?"

"Because someone's gonna get taken advantage of, or not know what they're getting into. Because sex with a thirteen year old isn't sex, Sam. It's rape."

Red jam is on his cheek. Dean doesn't brush it away. Not like he would've last year. "I'm almost fourteen."

"Still rape."

" _You_ had sex when you were fourteen."

"Not the fucking same."

 _(“Have you ever been fucked, Dean?” Sammy's tiny dick is soaking through pajama pants into Dean's hip, and Dean can't breathe, can't move away, can't even push his baby off because how could he? How could he push Sammy away while he's crying?_ _“Who? Dad?  Would you let Daddy fuck you?” He's snarling out, heady and furious and the only thing Dean can see through the tears in his eyes is John. Brown hair and thin lips and he's trying to say no, not you, not you too, he's trying-)_

Sammy's sugar sticky hands are way too high up on his thighs, hands that are beginning to look like Dad's, long and steady and quick with a gun. "I'm not gonna be thirteen forever."

"No shit, Sherlock. Did you come up with that one all on your own?"

Dean is shaking. Sam is steady. And when did that happen? When did this little boy get so  _angry,_ so hard up and stubborn and so much like their father?

"You look like mom." Sam's voice is possessive. Like no one has the right to look like Dean but  _Dean,_ like it doesn't matter who was born first.

"What does that have to do with incest?'

They should've stopped kissing a long time ago, Dean thinks, when a little boy mouth is pushing wet and needy against his. They can't play this off as Sammy being little and naive. They can't play this off as innocent affection. They can't play this off as something okay when Dean's tongue is stroking a begging boy.

Sam backs away slightly, disconnecting with a dirty _pop_ that makes Dean's dick hard and his head scream. "You wanna know what I want for my birthday?"

Dean is scared to death, and Sam is the one who's killing him.

The kisses need to stop. They need to stop before they turn into something else, something worse, like they've already turned into. They need to stop before they cross another boundary that should've stayed locked.

"Anything you want, Sammy. You know that."

Sticky and thirteen, the big birthday. Dean had taken him out to a baseball game and an art museum, and hadn't stopped smiling once the whole day, hadn't once said no to Sammy. He'd bought him popcorn and peanuts and purple cotton candy, let it melt on his tongue when baby boy fingers held a tuft out for his mouth. He'd gotten him a copy of the latest Ender's Game, let him ask the tour guide all the dorky questions he wanted. When they came across a hot dog stand near a huge ass fountain that he wanted to see, Dean had bought four and given three of them to Sammy.

That night, after crawling into bed together even though dad said they were getting too old, Sammy got his hands up Dean's T-shirt and his legs around his waist. It's my birthday, it's my birthday, just one kiss, it's my birthday.

 _(He’s pushing his thumb into Dean’s mouth. It tastes like copper and steel. “I'm in love with you.”)_  
  
Just one kiss had turned into three or four or ten, and Dean's dick was throbbing and his eyes were red, because he hadn't meant to take it this far. Just one kiss, just one kiss, no Dean, a  _real_  kiss, like with girls. Why won't you kiss me? Why the _fuck_ won't you just kiss me!? You'll kiss some slut but you won't kiss me on my birthday.  
  
_(“I call you mom, sometimes. In my head. It makes me hard.”_  
  
_Sam’s thumb isn’t anywhere near the back of his throat, but Dean chokes on it anyway.)_

"Anything I want?" A dimpled smile breaks out on his face, arms flung around Dean's shoulders. Dean closes his eyes and prays for forgiveness, prays to everone he can fucking think of, because he knows this is his fault. No matter what Sam says, no matter what Sam  _does,_ Dean should know better. He should say no. He should run away, or call the fucking cops on himself, because he knows that just one kiss is never going to be enough for Sammy anymore. It's been almost a year, and he can still feel Sam's hand wrapping around and around him till he couldn't breathe. Till it was too late.

"Anything. Always."

**Author's Note:**

> What's up, hoes?  
> I PROMISE I'LL UPDATE EVERYTHING SOON, THIS IDEA JUST WOULDN'T LEAVE ME ALONE ASDFGHJKL


End file.
